


Sky of the Sky

by chess_ka



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes about Martin and Henry, who are a ridiculously adorable couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistakes

This was a mistake. Henry _knew_ it was a mistake. How on earth was he supposed to go on a date? He had no idea how to act in that kind of social situation. And even if, miraculously, it did go well and they had more dates, it would inevitably fail because it was _Henry_. What was he thinking? He wasn't ready for a _relationship_! He still struggled to get more than three hours of sleep a night thanks to his screaming nightmares. He still jumped at any and all small noises in his house, working himself into lonely panic attacks. It wasn't remotely fair of him to think about bringing another person into this. It was a mistake, a huge mistake.

For a wild moment he thought about cancelling with Martin, locking the door of his London flat and never leaving. But then he remembered how disbelieving Martin had looked when Henry had got up the courage to ask him out, a scarlet blush had spread across his cheeks, and he pushed that idea away. He couldn't back out now though, that would just be awful. He couldn't stand Martin up. So... he would try and have a nice evening, and then let him down as kindly as possible. That would be best. He'd been alone for years, he could carry on being alone until he was more... functional. Less crazy.

He rubbed a hand over his face, fighting the urge to light a cigarette. Picking up his jacket, he checked his reflection in the hallway mirror: he was clean-shaven, but he still looked pale and tired, and his ears still stuck out too much. Still, not much he could do about that.

Martin was already at the restaurant when Henry got there, waiting outside and looking nervous, scuffing his shoes against the pavement. As Henry approached, he gave himself a moment to look over the other man: he looked nice, in a smart blue shirt that showed off his arms and jeans that Henry noticed (and immediately tried not to notice, colour rising in his cheeks) fitted to a very nice arse. Martin glanced up from his study of his feet, spotted Henry, and immediately ran a hand through thick ginger curls, as though trying to push them into some sort of order and succeeding only in messing them further. Henry immediately wanted to push his own hands into Martin's hair, to card his fingers through soft curls.

Martin smiled at him, nervous and crooked, and Henry's heart skipped a beat.

Oh, this was a _mistake_.


	2. Close Your Eyes

Martin opened his eyes, realising he had overslept, and immediately wished that he kept them shut. The blinding light seemed to spear straight through them to his head and he slammed his eyes closed. But it was too late: his head was throbbing with pain, lights bursting behind his eyelids along with an acute sensation of spinning.

He couldn't have a migraine! Not today! Henry was going to be here soon, they were going for lunch, he couldn't be ill, Henry had come to Fitton especially, and he had been hoping for more of the lovely kissing from their last date but oh _God_ he could scarcely think past the drumming pain in his head.

Keeping his eyes very tightly shut he reached for his phone on the bedside table. His hands shook as he tried to unlock the screen to text Henry, but he didn't get very far: a wave of nausea surged through his stomach, and he knew without doubt that he was going to be sick. Luckily, his attic room had a tiny, cramped bathroom and he made it just in time. It was whilst he was throwing up, body trembling, head pounding even more due to the movement and light, that his phone began to ring. The added noise made him flinch and he scrambled to turn it off, hands clammy as he picked it up. It was Henry's name on the screen and he couldn't hang up.

“'Lo,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples with his free hand.

“Morning.” Even Henry's soft voice was too loud. “I just got off the train, thought I'd let you know – where was it we were meeting again?”

“Mmph,” Martin muttered intelligently.

“Martin? Hello?”

“Urgh. Sorry, I- ohgod-”

“Are you all right?” Henry sounded worried.

“Migraine,” he managed to whisper. “Sorry, sorry-”

“Oh, no. Are you on your own? I'll come over-”

“No no it's fine, I'm sorry, about today.”

“Don't be. Are you all right?”

“Will be,” he croaked. “Only one student here today, so 's quiet -” he broke off as another powerful wave of nausea hit him, and he had to drop the phone as he leant over the toilet to throw up again. He was sweating and shaking when it was finished, barely able to see for the lights flashing before his eyes. He could vaguely hear Henry's voice from the tinny phone speaker, but he couldn't do anything but clutch his head and try to keep the dizziness at bay.

When it receded enough for him to grab the phone and shakily haul himself to his feet, he saw that Henry had hung up and left a message: _I'm coming over x_.

Oh, no. He didn't need to do that. Now the lovely man who had inexplicably gone on _five_ dates with Martin was going to see him in his horrible student house with his horrible flat and this horrible migraine and he would _leave_.

He groaned, and made his slow, uncertain way back to bed, flopping down on it and yanking the covers over his head, wrapped in misery and pain. He had been looking forward to today all _week_ , and now it was a complete write-off.

He slid into a doze just as he heard a faint knocking on the door below. Footsteps were on the stairs, each one making his head throb, and he curled in tighter on himself. The creak of his flat door made him tense further: someone probably wanted his help moving something. He groaned.

“Martin?” Henry's voice was soft and gentle. Martin tried to sit up, but succeeded only in making his head swim and the painful lights stutter over his sight. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, willing his stomach to stop roiling and his head to stop pounding so he could _think_.

"Henry?” he whispered hoarsely, his own voice sounding stupidly loud. “Why are you here?”

“Because you're not well.” His hair was stroked back from his face, and he leant into the touch. “I know how horrible migraines are.”

Martin pulled his hands away from his eyes, wincing at the sharp light (though he knew it wasn't bright, his curtains closed and the room dim), and watched as Henry pulled a bottle of water and a pack of painkillers from a bag. He took them in shaky, clammy hands, swallowing them down. Henry was smiling at him, not looking upset or frustrated or annoyed, just quietly worried and... _fond_. He took the bottle from Martin, set it on the bedside table, and pulled him into a gentle hug. Martin pressed his face into the crook of Henry's shoulder, breathing in shakily.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Henry rubbed his back. “Why? You've done nothing wrong.” A kiss was pressed to his hair. “You should get some sleep.”

He didn't want Henry to leave. His warm smell was comforting, the hands at his back soothing. He didn't know how to voice such a pathetic plea though, and merely nodded, which was something of a bad idea.

“Sleep, and when you wake up we could see about getting some food if you feel better.”

He was staying?

Henry helped him to lie back down and tucked the covers over him. Martin squinted up at him, trying to bring him into focus despite the dark spots dancing over his vision. “Henry?” he mumbled. Henry simply smiled, kicked off his shoes and sat himself on the bed, leaning against the headboard.

“Close your eyes.”

Martin obeyed, concentrating on the feel of Henry's fingers stroking through his hair, soothing him into sleep.


	3. Numb

“I can't feel my fingers,” Henry complained, rubbing his hands together.

“Well you shouldn't have forgotten your gloves then, should you?”

Henry grumbled at that, raising his reddened fingers to his mouth and blowing on them. Martin, whose fingers were similarly frozen but who was more used to it, smiled and took Henry's hands in his own. The other man was pink-cheeked from the cold, and Martin just had to lift his hands to his mouth, kiss the pads of his fingers.

Henry tugged him forward so they were pressed together, and put both of their hands into his deep coat pockets. A smile broke across Martin's face at that, and he stole a light kiss.

“Sharing body heat is the best way of warming up,” Henry remarked against Martin's lips.

“Mm, is it now?”

“Yes. Proven by science and everything.”

“Well then, who am I to argue?”

With a grin, Henry pulled his frozen hands from his pockets and shoved them up the back of Martin's jacket, under his shirt. Martin's high-pitched squeal made Henry laugh even more.

Their cold cheeks and numb hands were soon forgotten as Martin chased a giggling Henry across Fitton Park, finally catching him up by the duck pond.

“I'll push you in,” Martin threatened, holding Henry tightly around the waist. “Don't think I won't.”

“You wouldn't do that.”

“Give me one good reason.”

Henry pretended to look thoughtful. “Because I'm lovely.”

“Lovely people don't put their cold hands up their boyfriend's shirt.”

“But my fingers were numb, and you're all warm.” Henry pressed closer, touching his lips to the corner of Martin's mouth. “Maybe you should take me home and warm me up a bit?”

“Hm. Only if you make me hot chocolate.”

A smile against his lips. “Deal.”


	4. Museum

The tempestuous May weather had cleared, and the day was bright and clear. Henry came slipping and sliding back across the damp grass, two polystyrene cups of tea and bacon rolls wrapped in napkins precariously balanced. Martin leapt up to help, and only just managed to prevent himself knocking Henry over in the process.

“Display should start in half an hour,” Henry said, checking his watch. “We should get over there soon if we want to get a decent view.”

“To be fair, you tend to get a good view anywhere since the display's _in the air_.”

“Still, I want to see the Hurricanes up close.”

Martin couldn't stop a smile blooming across his face: Henry wasn't as interested in planes as he was (though he was self-aware enough to admit that possibly _no one_ was as interested in planes as he was), but he had a keen interest in British military history.

Half an hour later, stood in a muddy field at Duxford Air Museum, Harrier jets zooming overhead and Henry's arm warm around his waist, Martin wondered if this was what a perfect day felt like.


	5. Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will rot your teeth. I offer no apologies.

Martin enjoys singing, which would surprise many people who know him to be self-conscious and awkward with his words.

He sings when he drives, when he cooks, when he cleans. Particular favourites are The Beatles, The Who and David Bowie, though Henry's fondness for the Rat Pack and 1930s musicals was starting to edge into his repertoire.

It is when Martin is singing that Henry most likes to look at him: he looks relaxed, his face free of all the worry that usually plagues him, his voice clear and confident rather than stammering and uncertain.

One evening, after a bottle of red wine, Martin spins Henry around the flat in an attempted waltz. He is flushed and giggling, his curls sticking at every angle, as he sings “You Are My Sunshine”, smiling the whole time.

He hums the same song when Henry wakes up from a nightmare, shaking and whimpering. Henry leans into Martin's chest, feeling gentle hands run up and down his back as Martin hums the quiet melody to him.


	6. Shooting Stars

“There's so many stars out here.”

“Not much traffic pollution in Dartmoor.”

“I've only ever seen this many when we've been near the desert. Or in the Arctic.”

“They must be more interesting than here.”

“No... no, not at all.”

“... Your hands are cold. Come here.”

“Mm. Thanks.”

“You'll miss the shooting stars doing that.”

“Mmph. Your neck is warm, though.”

“I'm glad to hear it, but you should – look! Martin, look!”

“What? What? Oh... oh, that's incredible.”

“Isn't it? I love watching shooting stars. Dad and I used to watch for them.”

“There's another one!”

“I always wanted one of them to fall nearby as a meterorite. I made up all sorts of stories about what could happen – I'd get magical powers or find an alien or something.”

“Caitlin once told me that if a shooting star fell to earth you had to put it back into the sky or it would be really sad and give you bad luck.”

“How old were you?”

“Dunno. About five?

“Ah, well then. Once you were an aeroplane you could have put it back yours- ow!”

“Don't be mean.”

“I'm not. It's adorable.”

“It is _not_.”

“It really is.”

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

“Oh, the usual things, I think. Astronaut. Fireman. I wanted to join the circus once. I think I identified with the elephants. There's another!”

“It's beautiful.”

“It really is.”

“...The _stars_ , Henry.”


	7. Speak

They are both shy, but in different ways. Faced with a situation he finds socially awkward, Henry will clam up and look at his shoes, struggling to find words and preferring not to talk at all. Martin, on the other hand, will fall over himself trying to break any silences, becoming increasingly flustered and inarticulate as he discovers that, once again, he is unable to talk to people the way others can. 

Martin doesn't care that Henry's shy, or that he's quiet. He likes how softly-spoken Henry is, how carefully he enunciates his words. Every word Henry says has been thought through and considered, and he means all of it. When Henry has a nightmare or a panic attack he loses this control: he will be forced into desperate screaming, repetitions of, “No! Nononono!” which rise in pitch and in pain, twisting Martin's heart. 

Henry loves Martin's voice. Not just the nervous, high-pitched and babbling version that comes about in these situations. No, his favourite thing about Martin's voice is that, when he is relaxed and happy, it sinks about two octaves. It becomes smooth and dark and is able to send shivers up Henry's spine. What he likes best about it, however, is that it's a voice most people don't get to hear – it's like it's just for him.


	8. Jealous

Martin should have suspected that he was the jealous type. Insecure and proud, he was a prime candidate, after all.

Still, the actual _sensation_ of jealousy was a bitter shock, like being forced to swallow vinegar. He knew it was stupid, knew that they were just having a conversation, and he _definitely_ knew that Henry wasn't interested in the pretty girl currently talking to him. But it didn't stop the jealousy rearing its head, the sensation that simultaneously demanded _“mine”_ and whimpered in terror at the idea of not being good enough, of being _left_.

The girl tossed her glossy hair back, laughing. Henry smiled at her and said something else, which made her laugh more and lay a hand on his arm. He pulled it back gently, but she caught his hand and leant towards him, saying something that he clearly had to shift forwards to hear. Martin forced down the protective anger that surged in his chest: he _wasn't_ going to be jealous. He wasn't going to be one of _those_ people, who got upset whenever their partner spoke to someone else. He _hated_ those people. No, Henry could talk to anyone he wanted and Martin wasn't going to be ridiculous. 

He turned away from the sight, intending to find someone to talk to to distract himself. He had just made his way towards the door when a hand grabbed his arm. He almost jumped, but then Henry was squeezing his hand and muttering in his ear, “Sorry but, can we go? She's trying to be clingy and...” he trailed off.

Martin squeezed his hand. “Course we can,” he said, glancing over to the woman who was watching them, her eyebrows raised. Deciding that he could be possessive for one moment, Martin turned to Henry and pulled him in for a firm kiss.


	9. Protect

Henry hadn't expected things to go quite as well as they had done when he'd started dating Martin. He had spent weeks waiting for something to go catastrophically wrong, like all of his other attempts at a relationship, but instead they had just... worked, somehow. Even though Martin worked ridiculous hours and sometimes they didn't see each other for ages, even though they were both awkward and shy and nervous, they seemed to work. 

Not even a year in, and Henry rather suspected that he was stupidly in love. 

Luckily, their relationship seemed to meet with slightly stunned approval from most people in Martin's life. Arthur had declared Henry “brilliant” almost the moment they were introduced, and even Carolyn's cold glare had softened after a while. Other Martin (who, Henry had learnt, was known as “Big Martin” to the rest of MJN) had been very friendly over a pint, giving him a clap on the shoulder as they left the pub. Caitlin had handed him a cup of tea in her small kitchen, watching Martin playing with his young niece, and remarked, “I don't know when I last saw him this happy. You're good for him.” Henry hadn't been able to stop the grin unfurling across his face.

In fact, the only person who _didn't_ seem to like Henry much was Douglas. Martin's first officer was polite and friendly enough, but Henry got a distinct frosty feeling from him. Any time they were all in the same place he would roll his eyes at all instances of physical affection between the two (which were rather frequent, Henry would admit), and loudly declare that they should “get a room” if they kissed in front of him. Martin didn't seem to react to it apart from to give some sarcastic response. Henry didn't want to bring it up, but he had to wonder whether Douglas was uncomfortable with seeing a same-sex relationship displayed.

Still, Martin seemed happy, so Henry kept his misgivings to himself.

It was October, it was dark and rainy, and it was Martins 34th birthday. The table of the Greek restaurant was crowded with people, which had seemed to shock Martin enormously (and God, every time he looked surprised that people _cared_ for him Henry wanted to wrap him in his arms and not let him go). Carolyn was there, with Herc in tow. Arthur had brought along the latest Pony Club girlfriend. Other Martin and his wife had come and were getting along famously with Caitlin and her husband Tom. Douglas had sauntered through the door late, clapped Martin hard on the back, and proceeded to hold court over the table. 

Halfway through the third Meze course Martin was flushed with wine and giggling, his hair in disarray. Henry rather liked the tipsy version of Martin: he was much more carefree, and he smiled more. Henry put his hand on Martin's thigh and kissed his cheek. Beaming, Martin turned and kissed him properly. “I love you,” he said happily. “Thank you for this.”

“You are very welcome,” Henry murmured, brushing an errant curl from his forehead. “Happy birthday.”

“Gentlemen, some of us are trying to eat,” Douglas pointed out. “Can you keep your sugary-sweet affection away from the food, please?”

“Jealous of the young love, Douglas?” Herc drawled. “It must seem a hundred years ago for you.”

“Oh, I'm all for youthful romance. Just not whilst I have a magnificent steak to pay attention to.”

Martin rolled his eyes and squeezed Henry's hand under the table. “It's my birthday and I'll kiss who I want to,” he declared.

“Ah, that well known hit.”

An hour or so later, as they were leaving the restaurant, Martin and Henry tangled briefly with what appeared to be a few men on a stag night. Henry tugged Martin aside to let the group through the door, and had his shoulder roughly jostled by one of the larger men.

“Sorry,” he said automatically.

“Watch it,” said the man, his voice rather more angry than was necessary. His gaze travelled from Henry's face down to where his fingers were tangled with Martin's, and his expression morphed into one of barely-veiled disgust. “Fuckin' poof,” he muttered.

One of his friends gave a jeering laugh. The man seemed to grow bolder. “All right, gay boys?” he crowed. He elbowed the man beside him, inviting him into the joke. “Off to take it up the arse, are you? I bet you take it, don't you, ginger?” 

Henry could only stare, rooted to the spot. His mind seemed to have gone blank. His hands were shaking, his stomach now tight and hot with mingled fury and shame. Beside him, Martin was wide-eyed and pale faced, his eyes suddenly over-bright. Henry tightened his grip on Martin's hand. _Say something_ , he thought furiously. _Don't just take that, bloody well say something!_

“Excuse me, would you mind repeating that? I'm not sure I heard,” came a polite voice from beside them. All heads swivelled to Douglas, who had appeared beside them.

“What?” The man's voice was brimming with over-confidence, a sneer still on his face.

“I asked if you'd mind repeating your mindless prejudice,” Douglas said cheerfully, his eyes cold as he glared at the man. “I'm sure you wouldn't find it too much of a hardship.”

“Oh, hold up, mate,” said the man, turning fully towards Douglas. “We were just having a laugh, yeah?”

“A laugh,” Douglas repeated slowly, as though mulling the word over. “A _laugh_. No, I'm sorry, you've lost me. I rather thought the point of a 'laugh' was to give everybody a bit of a chuckle, release positive endorphins, bond a little. What you appear to have done is make bigoted remarks that demonstrate a distinct _lack_ of humour but a _great deal_ of close-minded intolerance.”

Henry felt his jaw drop. _Douglas_ was sticking up for them? After all his snide comments and eye-rolls and sarcasm?

The first man stepped forward, staring Douglas in the eye. “So you want to make something of it, old man? Maybe I don't want a couple of queers getting up in my space.”

“I would very much like to 'make something of' your inability to recognise when someone is politely letting you through a doorway. I would also like to make something of the fact that you appear to be terribly threatened by the mere presence of two men who love each other. Tell me, is it difficult to be so insecure?”

“Insecure? Now you look here-”

“Because, quite frankly, it is astounding that you feel you have the right to judge others for who they love and how they show that. I have to ask, is it fun existing in the past? Because those of us over here in the future have moved past the ludicrous focus on gender and sexuality and are instead just glad when our friends find a good, decent person to fall in love with. But I'm sure that no matter what I say to you right now will change your tiny mind, so let me just end with this:” Douglas stepped forward, towering over the fuming man. “You will apologise for the disgusting things you have just said to my friends, and then you will _walk away_. Understand?”

“Not a chance in-”

“ _Understand_?”

A short staring contest ensued, after which the man turned to Henry and Martin, fixing his gaze somewhere in the region of Henry's left elbow, and muttered, “Sorry, mate.” He shuffled off, carefully skirting around Douglas as he left.

“What a charming individual,” said Douglas airily, holding the door open for them to exit the restaurant. Everyone else had left, so it was just the three of them in the drizzle.

“Douglas, I- thank you.” Martin shook his head, shuffling awkwardly on the damp pavement. “That was... was brilliant, frankly.”

“It _was_ rather good, wasn't it? It's always a lovely way to end an evening, getting to have words with a mindless bigot.”

“I... I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, don't mention it. Think of it as a birthday present. Are you all right, Henry? You look rather shaken.”

“Hm? Oh. I... I'm fine. Just didn't expect that.” He hesitated, briefly. “I thought you didn't like me.”

“What on earth gave you that idea?”

“Well, you've never exactly been... friendly.”

Douglas waved a hand. “I meant what I said. You're clearly a good man, and Captain Biggles is disgustingly in love with you. I certainly hope you'll be staying around.”

Henry beamed, rather stupidly. “I hope so too.”

Douglas saluted, smirking. “Well, I'll be off home, gentlemen. You enjoy the rest of your evening now, Captain Crieff.” He dropped Martin a disgustingly salacious wink, and strolled off to the taxi rank.


	10. Hair

_Cafuné: the act of tenderly running your fingers through someone's hair._

“God, my hair looks ridiculous.”

Henry glanced at Martin in the bathroom mirror: his boyfriend was trying in vain to push the ginger waves into some semblance of order, but they were obstinately sticking up in a bed-head. Henry thought it was adorable.

“It's not ridiculous,” he said simply, wiping the last of the shaving foam from his jaw.

Martin pouted. “It hardly makes me look like a _captain_ though, does it? I need to get it cut.”

Henry was quiet for a moment. He knew how much being taken seriously at work meant to Martin, and he couldn't blame him. He wrapped his arms around his waist from behind and kissed behind his ear. “Short hair doesn't make a captain. And besides, you said not one person last week mistook Douglas for the captain.”

“Well yeah, but-”

“I like your hair when it's longer,” he continued, nuzzling the nape of Martin's neck where he smelt warm and sweet. “I love your curls. I just want to run my fingers through them forever. Short hair is too... severe on you.” 

Martin leant back against him, trailing his fingers against Henry's bare forearm. “I do like it when you stroke my hair,” he admitted.

“Well then, leave it for a bit. Let it grow. It looks lovely on you: it brings out your cheekbones.”

A small smile tipped the corner of Martin's mouth. “All right,” he turned his head, kissed Henry's jaw. “I'll leave it.”

Two weeks later, Martin came home exhausted and miserable, having spent two days being belittled and laughed at by not only Douglas and Carolyn, but by the passengers. He changed into worn, comfortable pyjamas then curled up on the sofa with his head in Henry's lap as they watched a re-run of _Community_. 

When Henry's fingers began to stroke tenderly through his hair, working out the knots and soothing away the aches and stresses of the last two days, Martin closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to relax.


	11. Fears

Martin's flight was late, and he stumbled into Henry's Fitton flat at around midnight, exhausted. He was looking forward to crawling into bed with Henry and falling asleep. 

He kicked his shoes off and dumped his flight bag in the hallway. He was just hanging up his coat when he heard it: a small, frightened sound, like a hurt animal. Martin's heart seemed to stop for a moment, and he hurried to the living room.

Henry was huddled in the corner, knees drawn up, his face livid with terror and tear-tracks on his cheeks. His breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps, and he was visibly trembling. The rumpled blanket on the sofa told Martin that he had fallen asleep there again: Henry avoided sleep as much as he could, plagued by nightmares, and inevitably crashed out whilst watching television.

“Henry?” Martin whispered, taking a nervous step towards him, hand held out. Henry flinched and made a tiny, broken noise. Martin dropped beside him and laid a gentle hand on his arm, hoping Henry wouldn't bolt as he had done on previous occasions. This time, however, Henry turned and buried his face in Martin's chest as he broke into sobs.

“Oh no, Henry...” he wrapped his arms around the other man, tugging him in closer, wishing he knew what to say.

“I'm s-sorry,” Henry choked. “I'm s-sorry, so sorry...”

“No. No, you don't have to – you've not done anything wrong-”

“I'm not c-crazy, Martin. I'm _n-not_.”

“I know you aren't.”

“I hate this, I _hate_ it. Why won't it stop?”

“I don't know. I really don't. I wish I could make it stop.”

“It's worse when you're not here.”

Martin's heart twisted and he pressed a kiss to Henry's hair. “I won't leave. I won't – I don't have to. I can just do the delivery work and then I'll be here-”

“No!” Henry gasped, sitting up so suddenly he cracked his head on Martin's jaw. He cupped Martin's face and pressed kisses to the spot he had hit, his voice falling out in a broken jumble. “No, I didn't mean- no, no, you can't do that, I can't ask you to do that, you love flying, you'd be so miserable without it and I can't let you lose that for me-”

“You're not asking, I'm offering-” It would hurt, Martin knew. He'd be devastated to be unable to fly, but to come home and see Henry like this, to see him so hurt and frightened, was breaking his heart. If his presence would help Henry, then he would do it. 

“No. _No_ , Martin. You can't do that. I won't let you.” Henry tugged him close and kissed him. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it, it was stupid-”

“Henry, you're more important than my stupid job-”

“I just need to get over it-”

“I want you to get better-”

They were speaking over each other, clutching clumsily at hair and shoulders as each tried to reassure the other. Martin pressed helpless kisses to Henry's mouth, cutting off his words. “Let's go to bed,” he whispered against Henry's lips. “Let's go to bed and talk about this in the morning.”

Henry took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes, of course. Martin-”

“Ssh. It's okay.” 

Martin coaxed Henry to his feet and took him to bed. He was still shaking slightly, tiny tremors running under his skin, and it made Martin's chest tighten to see. He wished he could reach into Henry's mind and find this fear, this trauma, and take it out, take it for himself because anything was better than seeing Henry suffer in this way.

He changed into pyjamas and climbed in under the covers, wrapping his arms and legs tight around the other man. Henry pressed his face to Martin's neck, whispering apologies over and over. Martin kissed him, shifting and pulling Henry on top of him, holding him desperately closer, sliding his hands up inside Henry's shirt to stroke over the muscles of his back, trying to soothe him. Henry's apologies turned to warm kisses, pressed to his throat and the curve of his shoulder, then back to the sensitive spot just below his ear. 

“Thank you.”

“What for?” 

“Just. Being here. Looking after me when I'm ridiculous.”

“You aren't ridiculous. Don't say things like that.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You're wonderful.”

Henry sighed, tucking in closer. “I still need help.”

“We'll find someone who can help. Don't worry.”

“And if it... if it doesn't stop... you'll stay?”

Martin had no idea why Henry _wanted_ him to stay, but he also couldn't comprehend why Henry imagined he would leave. “I'm not going anywhere.”


	12. Kiss

Henry wasn't sure what his favourite kind of kisses were. He loved kissing Martin, and all of them had their own brand of perfection. He loved the intense, desperate kisses that came with sex, tongues tangling and teeth nipping at lips. He loved the brief, tender kisses they exchanged during the day, as they said goodbye at the front door, as Martin passed him a cup of tea, that Martin stole as Henry cooked. He loved the clumsy, first-thing-in-the-morning kisses, when they were both sleepy and dry-mouthed. He loved the soft brush of lips before they drifted off at night, the ones that seemed to blend with the quiet of sleep. He loved pressing kisses to Martin's curls, loved the way Martin would kiss his cheek at every moment... 

Yes, kissing Martin was probably Henry's favourite activity.

His favourite kiss, though, was their first kiss. It had been a rather terrible kiss really, awkward and nervous, with the wrong angle and the wrong pressure and both of them uncertain about where to put their hands. Henry had wanted to kiss Martin from the moment they met: his lips were a perfect cupid's bow, which Henry had not thought was possible, and they looked so full and soft. He hadn't dared kiss him at first: he had almost done it at the end of their first date, had warred with himself about leaning in and kissing the nervous, blushing man in front of him, but had chickened out. 

On their second date, he had had a horrendous cold, and was barely able to speak through a sore throat. Martin had insisted on sending him home early, with strict instructions to drink tea and keep warm. Henry hadn't kissed him, though he had brushed gentle fingers down Martin's cheek, enjoying the way it made his eyelids flutter. 

Finally, on their third date, he had been healthy and more confident. After two successful dates, endless text messages and frequent phone calls, he felt much more comfortable with Martin. He had almost let the chance pass him by, almost lost his nerve. They had met up at a café, and were stood outside in the awkward fashion of two people who didn't quite know how to say goodbye. 

“Well, I'll talk to you later,” Martin had said finally, smiling shyly and scuffing his shoe against the pavement. “It was lovely to see you again.”

“Yes,” agreed Henry. “It was good. Thank you. I'll talk to you later.”

Martin grinned at him then turned away, began to walk down the street. Henry wavered, cursing himself for being a coward again. He didn't want to wait, didn't want to keep putting this off because he was worried. “Martin!” he called after the other man, already halfway up the street. “Martin, wait!” 

Martin turned, looking worried as Henry jogged towards him. “What's wrong?” he asked, confusion in his voice. “What's hap-” He stopped talking abruptly as Henry cupped his face in both hands. For a moment Henry fumbled, then kissed him. The angle was wrong, their noses bumped, and Henry couldn't help but giggle. Martin huffed out his own laugh, then kissed back clumsily, too hard, their teeth clicking as they both laughed. It was all wrong, not the perfect kiss that happened in movies. 

Henry pulled away, regarding Martin carefully. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Was that okay? I just... I didn't want to wait.”

Martin touched his lips briefly, smiling gently. “You kissed me,” he said.

“Yes,” Henry agreed. 

The smile spread across Martin's face, creasing his eyes. “Will you do it again?”

Henry beamed. He moved closer again. Martin moved in at the same time. The kiss was soft and quiet, their lips barely brushing.

Henry wouldn't have changed it for anything.


	13. Visit

“Well, this is it,” Henry says, pulling up and turning the engine off. He sounds nervous, and he doesn't look at Martin.

“ _This_ is your house?” Martin stares up at it. It's absolutely huge, and very beautiful in its own way, an odd mix of old stonework and modern extensions that somehow manage to work together. 

“Yeah.” Henry fiddles with his sleeve cuff, his ears rather pink. “Well, you know, I got left it and I couldn't bear to sell it or anything, so -”

“It's amazing.” Martin doesn't know why Henry's looking so worried. “Come and show me round.” He leans over and kisses Henry's cheek before scrambling from the car. Henry gets out, smiling now, and grabs Martin's bag from the back seat.

“I don't live in all of it,” he admits, leading the way up to the front door. “It's just too big for one person, you know?”

Martin's attic flat is only one room, so he has no real concept of what Henry means, but he nods anyway. “Did you put all this modern stuff in?”

“Yeah. It was falling down a bit, but adding new structures saved it from collapsing too much. Made it a bit different as well, without ruining it. Here we go.” He pushes the front door open. The hallway is wide and bright, leading to a spacious, well-lit kitchen. On a bookcase in the hall Martin notices a framed photograph of a little boy sitting on the shoulders of a broad, smiling man. The little boy is grinning from ear to prominent ear: it is clearly Henry, and he looks no older than four. The man must be Henry's father. Martin's heart twists as he looks at the laughing little boy in the photograph, who has no idea of what lies ahead for him.

“D'you want a cup of tea?” Henry calls from the kitchen, startling Martin from his reverie.

“Yes please!” he calls back, heading into the kitchen where Henry is busying himself with the kettle. The kitchen seems to be open plan with a small living room and large French doors leading to the garden. Martin wanders over and looks out across the lawn, which is well-tended. There's a greenhouse off to the side, and several beds of flowers. Across the garden wall Dartmoor looms, bleak and beautiful at the same time. The grey sky threatens rain.

“It's amazing here,” he says. It's so open and wild after the cramped civility of Fitton.

“I do like it mostly,” Henry says. “I loved London when I lived there, but I dunno. There's just something about Dartmoor.” He comes to stand beside Martin, handing him a mug of tea. He gazes out at the moor pensively, the sadness that always lurks behind his eyes stirring across his features.

Martin sets his tea down on the coffee table, then takes Henry's mug from him. Henry frowns at him, but Martin steps into his space, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

“I'm really glad I'm here,” he says firmly. “I missed you.” 

Before Henry can respond, Martin tilts his head up and presses a soft kiss to Henry's lips. Henry responds immediately, wrapping his arms around Martin and pulling him in close. As they kiss, deep and slow and tender, Martin feels the tension seep from Henry's shoulders.

“Thank you,” Henry says when they break apart. He smiles, genuinely this time, and strokes Martin's cheek. “I was wallowing.”

Martin turns his head and kisses Henry's palm. “It's alright,” he says. He takes Henry's hand in his, gives it a squeeze. “Maybe you should show me around?”

“Course. Where do you want to see?”

Martin grins wickedly. He leans up, kisses Henry again, nips at his lower lip. 

“How about the bedroom?”


	14. Separate

Henry checked his watch again, then checked the large clock on the arrivals board. Predictably, the time was the same – and there was still fifteen minutes to go. He sighed, scuffing his shoe on the floor of the arrivals lounge, resigning himself to more waiting. Really, after two weeks of being away from Martin, fifteen minutes should be easy. 

He was itching for a cigarette, but he was trying hard to give up. He had only had a few in the past two weeks and was very proud, but Martin would never believe him if he stank of nicotine when he got back. Though privately Henry didn't think Martin had a leg to stand on complaining about his smoking, since he pilfered Henry's cigarettes quite regularly.

No, he wasn't going to smoke. He gnawed impatiently on a thumb nail instead. It didn't help. 

Finally, _finally_ , Martin's flight was listed as having landed. Henry's heart rose. He knew Martin would be exhausted, and probably in a bad mood: MJN had had to fly back commercially after a problem with GERTI had resulted in her being grounded in New York. Henry dreaded to think of how Carolyn would have reacted to that.

A small crowd surged forwards, indicating the first of the arrivals. Gradually, small groups of pale-faced, rumpled travellers began to emerge, dragging suitcases or with duffel bags slung over their shoulders. There was no sign of MJN though, so Henry hung back, unwilling to get crushed by the milling crowd.

Eventually, the stream of passengers slowed to a trickle. And then there was a glimpse of bright ginger hair. Martin appeared, looking pale and exhausted, flanked by Douglas and Arthur with Carolyn striding in front. Henry couldn't stop the grin unfurling over his face at the sight of Martin, scruffy and dejected though he seemed.

“Martin!” he called out, unable to stop himself. The few people in front of him turned to look, but he was already heading forwards, wanting to get rid of this distance between them as soon as possible. 

Martin glanced up, looking startled. Henry had not told him he was coming, and it was worth it to see the surprise, relief and happiness brighten over his face.”Henry!” he cried. Henry hurried forward, Martin dropped his case and actually ran, throwing himself into Henry's arms. Henry laughed, wrapping his arms tight around his partner and lifting him off his feet, spinning him round.

“Put me down!” Martin giggled, still holding onto him. Rather breathless, Henry set him back on his feet, only to be pulled immediately into a fierce kiss. 

“Oh for _goodness_ sake,” came Carolyn's voice. “Can you honestly not cope without one another?”

Martin broke away, though he didn't look away from Henry's face as he retorted. “You're just bitter that I've got a lift home.”

Unable to stop himself smiling, Henry brushed a stray curl back from Martin's face, taking in his pale, dark-rimmed eyes, the way his cheeks were drawn with tiredness, and pressed another gentle kiss to his full lips. “I missed you,” he murmured. 

“Really? I couldn't tell.”

“Cheeky.”

Martin smiled and broke away from the embrace, picking up his flight bag. “I got you some Pop Tarts. I didn't let Arthur near them this time, either.”

“Oh, excellent.” Henry wrapped an arm around Martin's waist as they headed for the car park. “I'm afraid I can offer nothing more than a cup of tea when we get back.”

“That's _perfect._.”


	15. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has an adult rating - be warned!

“Oh God, I can't find my key-”

“Don't tell me you've locked us out.”

“No! No, no, no. It's in my key pocket.”

“Of course you have a key pocket.”

“Ah hah!” Martin pulled his keys out of said pocket and jangled them triumphantly in Henry's face. “Keys!”

After a few moments of awkward fumbling, not helped by the fact that Henry had his arms wrapped around his waist from behind and was nuzzling at his hair, Martin flung open the door to his house. They stumbled into the hallway, giggling, and Martin pushed Henry up against the wall to kiss him sloppily.

“You taste like whisky,” Henry informed him.

“So do you. And cigarettes.”

“I only had one!”

Martin raised his eyebrows.

“Alright, two. Well, three.”

“I thought you were giving up?”

“I'm _trying_. It's _hard_!”

Martin giggled. “Mm. _Hard_ ,” he repeated, pressing his thigh between Henry's legs. “Yup. Getting there.”

Henry snaked his hands down Martin's back to grab a handful of his arse, pulling him in close. “So're you, Captain Crieff. What do you propose we do about this?”

“Mm. I might have an idea.” Martin began pressing kisses to Henry's neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below his ear. Henry hummed, and pushed one hand down the back of Martin's jeans, squeezing his arse. Martin kissed him, clumsy with drink.

“Not sure I'll make it up two flights of stairs,” Henry muttered.

“Mmph. Me either. S'okay, students have buggered off for Easter. There's a sofa in there.”

“Mmm. Student house sofa. How many diseases are we going to get?”

“D'you want to risk the stairs?”

“... Point taken. C'mon then.” 

With that, Henry bent his knees, seized Martin under his thighs, and hefted him up into his arms. Martin shrieked and laughed, wrapping his legs around Henry's waist.

“Oh God, I'm drunk,” Henry gasped. “Which one's the living room?”

“That one, you tit.”

“Watch it, Crieff.”

A little unsteadily, Henry carried a giggling Martin through to the living room, where he dumped him rather unceremoniously on the sofa. Martin sprawled where he was dropped, grinning dopily up at his partner. Fumbling slightly, Henry tugged off his jumper and his t-shirt before crawling over Martin and kissing him hard. Martin's hands were everywhere, running over his back and shoulders, down his chest and teasing his nipples. 

“Now you,” Henry said, pulling back and sitting on Martin's thighs. “C'mon. Shirt off.”

Martin struggled into a half-sitting position, though he made no move to take his own clothes off. Instead he reached out and ran his hands over Henry's chest instead. “You're gorgeous,” he said simply.

Henry caught one of his hands and pulled it to his mouth, kissing his palm. “As are you. C'mon, kit off.” He began tugging at the buttons of Martin's shirt until Martin batted his hands away to do it himself. 

It took them a while to get undressed. Shirts and jumpers were easy enough, but with their fingers made clumsy with drink they struggled with their jeans. Henry got his halfway down his legs before realising he still had his shoes on, then proceeded to only tighten the laces as he tried to remove them. Martin gave up on his own attempts in order to laugh at Henry's woes, leaving his jeans around his knees as he slumped back on the sofa, giggling helplessly. Finally they managed to coordinate themselves enough to remove the rest of their clothing, and Henry pulled Martin into his lap.

“Stop laughing at me.”

“Stop being funny, then.”

Henry pinched his nipple, making him squeal. “That was mean!” Martin retaliated by biting Henry's ear, only to gasp and whimper when Henry wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking him to full hardness. 

“What do you want?” Henry asked, nuzzling at Martin's jaw. “How do you want to come?”

Martin made a strangled noise, turning his head to kiss Henry thoroughly. He tried to reach down to stroke Henry, but was batted away. 

“What do you want?” Henry asked again.

“I - _oh God_ \- I want – oh bloody hell I don't know just do _something_!”

Henry giggled, pressing his face to Martin's shoulder. “That isn't sexy.”

“If you don't do something soon I am going to -”

“Splutter at me?”

Before Martin could formulate a response to that, Henry shifted down the sofa, took Martin's cock in hand and licked firmly over the head. Martin cried out, arching off the sofa, his hands flying to Henry's head. Smiling, Henry settled into a rhythm, licking and sucking as Martin groaned and whimpered. Soon, Martin's hands were clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin.

“Henry - _Henry_ , oh God, I'm going to -”

Martin cried out, but it wasn't in pleasure – instead, it was in horror. He somehow managed to scramble away from Henry, who choked and gasped, “What the -”

Martin was staring in horror at the doorway, his face quite ludicrously red. Dread flooded Henry's stomach, and he almost didn't dare turn around.

“I _never_ want to see my little brother do that again.” Caitlin was leaning against the doorframe, smirking at them. 

“ _Caitlin_!” Martin squeaked, scrabbling to find some clothing. “What are you doing here?!”

“My car conked out on the way home from a meeting, and I thought to myself, oh, maybe I'll go crash on Martin's sofa. I've got a spare key, after all.” She lifted her key as evidence. “What I _did_ not expect was that I'd walk in on you two, ah, _enjoying_ yourselves. Hello, Henry.”

“H-hello-” Henry couldn't look her in the face. She had just seen him – with her _brother_ -

“Caitlin, can you _leave_ for a minute?” Martin exclaimed. Henry had never seen him so red, and he suspected that he looked much the same. Martin threw his boxers at him and he caught them numbly.

“Nope,” said Caitlin, grinning. “This is funny. And not that bad, really.” Her eyes travelled suggestively over Henry's torso, and he was certain that he whimpered. “Not bad, Marty, well done.”

Martin threw a cushion at her. She ducked around it. “All right,” she said, grinning. “I'm off. I'll put the kettle on, yeah?”

Henry and Martin exchanged looks of mortification as Caitlin shut the door with a snap. 

“I can't believe that happened,” Martin said.

“Me either. I'll never look your sister in the eye again.”

“ _You_ won't? What about _me_?”

Just like that, the ridiculousness of the situation caught up with them. Martin started to giggle, and soon Henry was laughing as well. Stomach aching, Henry pulled Martin in for a quick, clumsy kiss. “We can try again later?”

“Mm. Maybe tomorrow?”

Henry smiled, kissed him again. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. “Definitely.”


	16. Motorbike

“Oh my God.”

“Well?”

“Henry. Henry, why do you have a motorbike?”

“It's not mine. It's Mark's. I talked him into letting me take it for a spin.”

“Can you _ride_ a motorbike?”

“Course I can! I just rode it here, didn't I? Got my license and everything, if you need proof. The only difficult bit is getting a helmet to fit over my ears. They're a bit squashed.”

Martin had to giggle at that, and Henry smirked. 

“You coming for a ride, then?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not? It's perfectly safe! Safer than your plane!”

“Henry. Planes are statistically the safest form of transportation. Motorbikes are definitely _not_.”

“Planes, yes. GERTI, no. Come on Martin, please? It'll be loads of fun!”

“ _No_ , Henry. And no, the big sad eyes are not going to work on me. They look ridiculous with that helmet. Stop... are you actually wearing leather?”

“Well, obviously. If I'm doing this I'm going to the whole hog. I'm surprised it fit, actually. Mark's shoulders are narrower than mine. What d'you think?”

“I think your shoulders look quite fantastic in that jacket.”

“Oh yeah? You coming for a ride then?”

“... Oh for God's sake. Yes, yes, fine. Do you have a spare helmet?”


	17. Balding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the latest revelation about Martin ^^

“Martin, are you almost done?” Henry called through the bathroom door. There was no reply. 

“Come on, I need to shave! I can't have a meeting with Mr. Greaves looking like this.”

“Yes, sorry,” Martin's voice came from the other side of the door. “Hold on, I'll just-” There was the sound of fumbling, and then the snick of the bolt sliding back. Henry pushed the door open, but paused on his way in. Martin was still standing there, looking a little woebegone.

“What's up?” Henry asked, frowning. All thoughts of shaving before his meeting fled his mind. Martin had his arms folded over his chest in a posture that Henry recognised as preeminently defensive. He was looking at his feet, a small frown on his face.

“Hey,” Henry tried again. “What is it, love?” He stepped closer to Martin, gently taking his wrists and unfolding his arms. Martin sighed and shook his head.

“Nothing. It's – fine. Go on, you have to get ready.”

“Now, none of that.” Henry tugged Martin in against his chest and wrapped his arms around him. Martin leant his head against Henry's shoulder. “Tell me. Please.”

“It's silly. Don't worry about it.”

Henry said nothing. He stroked one hand up and down Martin's back in a soothing rhythm. He kissed the thinning curls on the top of Martin's head and waited.

“Just-” Martin hesitated, and he tightened his arms around Henry's waist. “At this rate I'll have lost all my hair by the time I'm forty. I look ridiculous enough as it is and-” he broke off. “Told you it was stupid.”

“It's not stupid,” Henry murmured. “I've had a receding hairline since I was about eighteen. It's just creeping its way up my forehead.”

“It suits you, though,” Martin mumbled.

“Says you.” Henry kissed Martin's hair again. “Martin love, I don't care about your hair. I love you, and I'll love you even when you no longer have all these curls. Besides, Prince William is balding, and look at him!”

“I thought you preferred Harry.”

“You're ginger and balding. That makes you the perfect combination of both.”

“Oh, shut up,” Martin said, but Henry could tell that he was smiling.


End file.
